


Favours & Routines

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Teasing, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 15:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Garak has offered Julian his sofa for a few nights: early in the morning, Garak watches Julian's morning "yoga" routine.





	Favours & Routines

Deep Space Nine is not a reliable station. Once upon a time, Garak knows very well, every replicator and console had been quick to jump to action at even a casual order, and when it settled beneath the name of Terok Nor, the station had been in excellent shape, but now? Manned by hands who do not understand Cardassian technology, Cardassian organisation, Cardassians themselves?

Deep Space Nine is unreliable.

“Garak,” Julian had muttered quietly as they had reached the end of one of their lunches together – Garak had known immediately that there was _something_ to come, for the young doctor had been eating at a most normal pace, taking small bites between conversations and listening to Garak speak with far less impatience than usual. Of course, his anxiety was nonetheless mildly off-putting, and Garak had felt some relief when finally, Julian had posed his query. “Uh— Look, I’m very sorry to ask, and I know that favours aren’t exactly—”

“Oh, my dear doctor,” Garak had interrupted, his tone positively laden with saccharine sweetness, “I do delight in exchanging favours, when the opportunity arises.” Julian had looked at him with such sudden suspicion, and yet more: Julian’s suspicious glances are always laden with that bit more, that bit of _interest_ , curiosity – dare Garak say, desire?

“A water supply pipe burst in my part of the crew quarters, and they’ve offered me emergency crew quarters, but—”

“My dear, do you think I would be so _unkind_ as to refuse you lodging?” Garak had placed his chin upon his hand, his lips quirked up into a small smile, and he had said, “Why, of course I might offer you the cot in my living quarters.”

“I—” Julian had stopped, staring at Garak with his lips parted, his eyes wide. “Er, I was actually going to ask if I could perform my exercises in your quarters. The emergency crew quarters are shared, and rather cramped, and— I was just going to ask if you could offer me space to do my morning routine.”

“Better if you _stay_ in my quarters, no? After all, such a routine is best performed before anything else.” Julian had blinked, and then his soft-featured face had changed, his eyes had widened, his mouth had opened, and how he had _smiled_ , it had been beatific!

And that is how Garak finds himself, sipping slowly at his morning tea, watching Julian silently from the doorway of his own bedroom. It is merely personal preference that had prompted Garak to set his replicator to be operated silently, and Julian does not notice him at all: he is focused upon his _exercises_ , as he calls them, and Garak is much too naturally stealthy to draw his attention in the dim light of the room. These are Garak’s quarters, after all: they match the dim light of Cardassian hallways, and the air is warm and dry.

Wearing his pyjama bottoms and currently faring without accompanying shirt, Julian forms an inverse _V_ against the ground, his hands flat upon the ground, his backside raised high in the air. He is breathing slowly, evenly, and across his brown skin there is a sheening layer of sweat, a few of the droplets catching the light as they slide down the length of his spine, his shoulders.

The next position is yet more curious: Julian rests his shoulders upon the floor, his back curving, and his legs form a straight line where they are held, parallel to the flatness of the ground beneath him. Garak sees now that Julian has laid out a mat of woven material on the floor, and Garak can only assume it better allows him to retain his grip as he takes on these strange stances.

“Do you know what I miss about Earth, sometimes?” Julian’s voice breaks the silence, and Garak feels his eye ridges shift with his surprise: although Julian had neither glanced Garak’s way nor even changed his breathing, he must have somehow realized Garak was there. Garak smiles: Julian Bashir is not the boy he once was. He is wiser now – sharper.

“Hmm?” Garak hums.

“The rain,” Julian murmurs. Garak, from his current angle, can see the younger man’s face in profile, see the calm control that overtakes his entire body. These controlled, held movements bare nearly no resemblance to the rather ridiculous puffing and huffing of his pre-tennis routine, and rather than feeling mildly amused and embarrassed, watching Julian shift through the positions elicits in Garak a sense of what it might like to be _spellbound_ – were he the sort, that is, to be so enchanted. “I attended yoga classes at Starfleet Academy, and sometimes it would be early in the morning with the rain falling down, and every droplet would slide down the glass…” He takes on another position, this one more slowly, and he comes admirably close to achieving the splits.

Garak imagines a raindrop making its way down a windowpane, and in parallel imagines the slight wetness to Julian’s skin, how it would feel to drag his fingers down the length of his bared back.

“Do you miss it? The rain?” Garak asks, and Julian glances toward him, apparently surprised by the question, then looks past Garak to the wide window behind him. Here, Garak thinks, is the bare ghost of what he had before the station was given over to the Federation – he still has his wide windows, his deep bath, his comfortable space, much more than some of the crew and upperclass inhabitants of the station are allowed. Julian looks at the window for a long few moments, his eyes distant, and then his gaze slides slowly back to Garak. His slack-jawed smile widens a little, retaining a youthful sweetness despite the fact that he is – _oh horror_ – past thirty.

“I suppose there are other things to be grateful for,” Julian murmurs, his voice so soft that it takes Garak a few moments to parse out precisely what he has said. Despite himself, Garak feels a warmth in his chest, and he looks on Julian with an irrevocably fond smile. “I don’t suppose you’re getting breakfast of any sort…?”

“Do mind yourself, Doctor,” Garak chides, but he makes his way back to the replicator all the same. He pretends he does not feel Julian’s gaze upon his back, and hides the softest of his smiles where the doctor cannot glimpse it.

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> I love my WIPs (currently on the top of the active roster are My Stars For An Empire, then The Serpent's Gaze, which are Marvel/Doctor Who and Harry Potter respectively), but I decided recently I've kind of missed doing short fics and one-shots, especially the smut and fluff interludes that have for so long been my bread and butter, so feel free to drop me a request in the comments or on my Tumblr if it suits you.


End file.
